


Watercolored Ripples

by palettesofrenaissance



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Growth, Implied:, POV Lapis Lazuli (Steven Universe), Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Steven Universe Future, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palettesofrenaissance/pseuds/palettesofrenaissance
Summary: She hates Mondays. And Wednesdays. And even Friday, for that matter. They run together; they’re boring, stupid, inconvenient.She especially hates the days which the alarm blares for the fifth consecutive time in an imitation of a rooster’s crow, disrupting the previously serene morning silence. As she glares maliciously at the red numbers, it takes her several of the following moments to realize that her technician roommate is nowhere nearby to turn off the contraption stationed across the room.The alarm’s imitation crows aggressively. She isn’t quite sure if she’s going to murder her roommatetodayor not, but she is leaning towards a hardyes.
Relationships: Lapis Lazuli & Peridot (Steven Universe), Lapis Lazuli/Peridot (Steven Universe)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	Watercolored Ripples

She waits for years for the calming release of death.

She expects to die. She’s _supposed_ to—if not physically, then metaphorically. What _else_ is she to expect after millenniums of torture, taunt, and torment of her consciousness imprisoned inside an _inanimate object_ , forced to become an onlooker to her own life and those she once knew, becoming a servant to the living and watching the world turn by, change, converse, run, laugh, die—

Her mind _breaks_ within a century, succumbing to the submission to become her captors’ foretelling hand mirror by recording all that graced her mirror’s glass—after forced this, _what else_ is she to expect, truly?

While trapped, she once believed the indoctrinate that this is to be her fate. She remembers seeing through the glass the declarations of war against the rebels by those from her home who captured her. She remembers the face of the rebels’ leader, the face etched in her mind forever; she remembers those from her home who imprisoned her, the clashing of weapons, the bloodied sky and battlefield strewn with broken, shattered remains of her people—both those from home and the rebels alike. And then when it’s all over, she’s tossed inside a pearl’s gemstone and categorized like a product on a shelf, in a catalog, and forgotten.

She’s just come to terms with _this_ being the genuine “end” of her life when she’s discovered by young, excited stubby hands and is dusted off like finding a new toy.

* * *

Immortality is a burden, she thinks.

The inability to forget, ever, is the _real_ _curse_ , she finds.

* * *

She was supposed to be dead; she’s made peace with that, and yet—

She manipulates the aforementioned alien youth who finds her, playing him like a fiddle, warming him to her and dropping his low walls to fool that she’s nothing but a fun, talking hand mirror and not a being with a conscious. And then, she convinces him to _dismantle_ her by ripping her essence from the mirror prison.

Will this truly free her or kill her? She doesn’t know and doesn’t quite care. She just wants an end in some way.

She _expects to die_ , has resigned to the yearning for it, to the poesy of it, this being severing act of defiance toward those who transmuted her. She would rather be shattered as herself than while in this inanimate body.

She’s prepared to die. She _wants_ to die; she deserves it after all this, and yet—she _doesn’t_.

What good is immortality when you can’t return home? When everyone you knew is gone and the world is now too unidentifiable?

What good is a life without a purpose? She’s never had anything but, and the possibility of an existence without one is foreign and it _scares_ her.

* * *

And yet she trudges forward.

* * *

She’s always been a little bit resolute, a little too emotionally reserved, and a little amoral. So when she gives in to build what life she can on Earth out of the tarnished, teeny rubble of what’s left over, she doesn’t expect to have an entire _entourage_ , much less a _roommate_. She’s not a large fan of having to stay in the broken down, untended, dusty barn house, and she’s not a large fan of those who constantly come visit the property.

She isn’t a _people-person_.

“I don’t like you,” are the first words she speaks that lay down the foundation between her and her roommate.

She _despises_ people, is what she feels.

* * *

“So you’re a _technician_ …?”

“And you’re an informer and you terraform…”

“Hmm… You’re a lot shorter in person. I suppose those were _limb enhancers_ and were just for show. You’re just a _useless, harmless squirt_ without them.”

“Insolent clod—I outrank you—!”

* * *

She is tall. Skinny. Ruler-shaped with a sylphlike built. Serrating, navy blue eyes matching with hair that hasn’t yet learned the definition of a hairbrush. She’s the complete _opposite_ of her pint-sized, self-aggrandizing, mantis green and brazen roommate who still hasn’t seemed to process and apply the meaning of _personal space_ and _comfortable solitude_.

She’s disturbed every day at six o’clock on the dot, even on weekends, by the vexing contraption her roommate accepted from the alien youth and then by whatever her roommate is creating: the drilling or welding of materials, the perspiring desperation to create some form of technology that is assumed to make living easier while in this oversized shack that is now their home. The roommate is always met with scoffs when asking for help and then insults about disturbing the morning silence. Sometimes she indulges in the amusement of watching her roommate fail. This used to be an amusing pastime in watching the other attempt at understanding all the Earth contraptions and its purposes found across the property.

However, recently, she’s been holding her tongue more and has been kicking back a part that falls off and rolls away. She finds herself helping, little by little—she would secure a piece in place as her roommate bolts it in. Recently, she’s been _considering_ …

* * *

She’s been considering how much better it would be to live alone because she fucking _hates_ Mondays.

And Wednesdays.

And even Fridays, for that matter. They run together, for the most part; they’re boring, stupid, inconvenient.

She hates the calendar that hangs near the barn doors and the sad anthropomorphic breakfast cartoons assigned to every month.

But she _especially_ hates the days which the alarm—gifted _to_ her roommate by the same _alien youth_ who released her from the hand mirror—blares for the fifth consecutive time in an imitation of a rooster’s crow. She glares maliciously at the glowing red numbers, too bright in the darkness of the closed barn and too loud for the formerly serene morning silence. It takes her several of the following moments to realize that her technician roommate is nowhere nearby to turn off the contraption stationed far across the room.

The alarm’s imitation crows more aggressively.

She isn’t quite sure if she’s going to murder her roommate _today_ or not, but she is leaning towards a hard _yes_.

After dragging herself from where she’s temporarily made her bed to finally turn off the alarm, she decides the aforementioned _yes_ is feeling like a _strong possibility_ , but she’s greeted fifteen seconds later by her roommate and the alien youth carrying a bagged sandwich and snacks he offers for her to try.

Her roommate titles it as a peace offering over the alarm that morning.

She grimaces at the offerings instead.

She starts to think that her squat roommate isn’t so bad—after all, this planet has started to grow on the both of them as well.

* * *

Despite all this, she now has a secret: this planet and her entourage aren’t _that bad_ —like, she no longer plots to enact violently towards the local others of her kind, believing them remissive, and she no longer has a strong desire to kill the alien youth and has warmed up to him instead, and she would no longer go behind anyone’s back, much preferring to doing whatever it is _outright_ —

Correction: she has an additional secret, and it isn’t _as bad_ as her previous urges. It’s actually quite innocent in comparison.

Its development began after the period where she forcefully stations the barn house on the _moon_ : she arrives back and finds a newfound love for _colors_. It began with noticing the variety of sea life, of the green seaweed, the reflecting scales of fish, the smooth skin of mammals, the glittering cerulean of the saltwater. Not long after, this extended to the land—with the helpful push from her new “pet,” the animated pumpkin-dog. Soon, she began seeing the colors of the terra in wonder instead of obnoxious: the sunshine yellow of sunflowers and squash and bumblebees; the royal orange in butterflies and pressed juice and the fox that has made a home in the abandoned barrels out back; the blues and violets of the sky; the different colors of humans, the joy of looking at paint swatches, and being blown away and overwhelmed when entering a grocery store.

Aside from finding the Earth literature amusing—and occasionally fascinating—she finds that she’s _very_ enthralled by shades abd hues. On one of her ventures into Beach City, she comes across a pottery and painting studio. There, she’s shown how she can create, and splash colors of the sky across plates and mugs. She finds joy in the molding, in the glazes, and the kiln. Quickly, she becomes a regular.

And she keeps her new hobby and interests and _spot_ a secret. She’s _embarrassed_ , almost, to say the least—because she knows she will be questioned, teased, or even _followed_ , and the alien youth will smile widely and get stars in his eyes and maybe even _sing_ about it, like he always does.

This is just something she wants to keep to herself, for herself. So whenever she’s asked about her outings, she lies.

It goes on well enough—until it’s a few years later, she and her roommate have become acclaimed and growing further still. It’s when February is approaching and stores are hanging pink and red hearts, giving out heart-shaped candy, sprinkling the shapes on cakes. She sees humans holding hands more and displaying more affection. Periodically, the tall fusion living on the beach with the alien youth separates so its two halves can indulge in the holiday.

She watches this all and is told that this is a holiday for _love_. She asks if tolerance and gratitude can be substitutes. The alien youth pauses, thinks it over, shrugs in acceptance.

And so, that’s how Lapis Lazuli finds herself sneaking off to the pottery and painting studio for several days a week in order to create and glaze the detailed, small sculpture that sits near Peridot’s bed, surrounded by protective bubble wrap—the very sculpture that made her grow teary-eyed and envelop Lapis in an embrace, and is the reason Peridot hasn’t let go of Lapis’ hand in three weeks.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> _This is recently edited._
> 
> _I have been simmering on high, deep in a bought of depression so yesterday I wrote this drabble to attempt at lifting my mind out of this funk and to distract myself by trying my hand at writing other characters._
> 
> _I have been wanting to write Lapis for a while. How did I do?_


End file.
